


Not a Futurist

by Seneschal



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Gen, Howard Stark Needs a Hug, Howard Stark's A+ Parenting, Howard Stark's Bad Parenting, Howard does though, Howard realizes the error of his ways, Maybe an explanation, No Beta, Not A Fix-It, The one where Howard sees the future and seriously misjudges Tony, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, Trying to do good sometimes does harm, We Die Like Men, author has no regrets, idk where this came from
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-17
Updated: 2019-02-17
Packaged: 2019-10-30 02:51:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17820413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Seneschal/pseuds/Seneschal
Summary: Howard Stark never called himself a futurist. The press did it for him.Seeing the future your whole life kind of makes you a little less enamored of the whole 'future' thing. But Howard has always wanted to help. He does his best, but sometimes, it's not enough.Or: Let's have a look into WHY Howard was such a bad parent, when he was a pretty decent guy in Captain America.





	Not a Futurist

**Author's Note:**

> I know I should be finishing other fic but this one has been mellowing in the back of my mind for like, 5 years and finally came together. No beta, we die like men. 
> 
> Written because it makes NO SENSE for Howard to be a reasonably decent, well-adjusted guy in Captain America and then, what, somehow transform suddenly into the raging a-hole depicted by Tony??? Anyways, this is my take on Howard actually BEING a decent human being, and shit just being kinda...fucked up. (Because seeing the future is a totally reasonable explanation. I'LL HEAR NO ARGUMENTS.)

Howard Stark never called himself a futurist. The press did that for him. He knew, all too well, that the future would come, will he, nil he, and learned that early on. The hard way.

 

He never remembered, specifically, when it started. It was more accurate to say that it had always been there, a part of him: the ability to see bits and pieces of the inevitable future. It was little things, knowing that he would spill the whole half-gallon of milk if he tried to pour a glass all-by-myself, small hands too weak to grip the smooth glass, but determined, tried anyways. Devised methods to grip the glass better, so that it wouldn’t fall. Failed. The milk always spilt regardless. He knew, when he saw a little boy in his class in first grade, that they would become friends—knew instantly the nicknames they would have for one another, told his indulgent (and then somewhat unsettled) mother about it that evening, how one day Niko would fall off the jungle gym and break his left arm while they were playing Tarzan and the bone would poke through the skin. He had a wild imagination, she told the neighbors, Niko’s mother, with an amused smile later that week.

 

Then they played Tarzan, one day six months later, and Niko fell from the jungle gym while swinging from vines, though Howard tried to tell him not to do it, and broke his arm. His mother cast Howard and Howard’s mom wild-eyed glances as she carried Niko away. Niko wasn’t allowed to play with Howard anymore after that, and avoided Howard’s eyes at school. Howard knew that soon, Niko would have to move away to Kansas, and told his mother as such. Three weeks later they watched Niko’s family piling into the moving van, driving away, and when he glanced up at his mother it was to see her looking at Howard, hand finishing the end movement of crossing herself.

 

Howard learned, early, that trying to change the little flashes of the future only made things worse. He knew, when his dog chased the ball into the street while they played fetch, that a car was coming. Spot was going to be hit, and killed. Howard chased Spot, yelling for him, thinking only that if he was fast enough, he could save Spot. He did, too. Spot saw him coming and playfully ran, but Howard—Howard was in front of the car, now, and then his mother—his Mother!—was there, shoving Howard out of the way, the brakes were squealing and there was shouting and a loud BANG sound, and his Mother, _his Mother_ —

 

Howard stopped trying to change things. Stopped trying to prevent the little tragedies. He knew, now, that it wasn’t a gift, just a curse. Knowing, but being unable to change things.

 

Time moved on, Howard always one step ahead of the rest of the world, just one step. It was enough.

 

When the war broke out, Howard had known about it for years, had also known that he was _needed_ , that he _would help_ , and had acted, years before. Stark Industries became a thing, became the foremost weapons manufacturer, and when the war broke out—they were there. Their guns were in American soldiers’ hands, their bombs taking out Nazi weapons and troops. Howard was helping, in the way he so rarely got to. It was heady, it was amazing. He wanted, needed, to help more.

 

The visions were rarely cohesive. Rarely useful. Flashes, oftentimes, things like watching a glass fall and shatter, but not knowing the circumstances, why it happened, how, when. But the visions were changing, slowly. Something was coming. He got flashes of blond hair, blue eyes. A strong chin, a stubborn mouth. A chest, red-white-blue stretched across it, the feeling of hope and safety. Something big was coming. Someone.

 

When he met Steve Rogers, just the little guy from Brooklyn, shorter even than Howard (who had never been a big man) he looked into the blue eyes from the future, and simultaneously looked down and up at him, knew that this man was Important, would save the world. This man would be a hero. And Howard would help to make him into it.

 

Time passed. Steve Rogers became Captain America became—and Howard saw it before it happened, saw water-ice-freezing-coldcoldcold _cold_ — _WAKING_ and knew, knew that Steve wasn’t dead. Saw Steve watching a hole torn open in the sky spewing _monsters_ , saw him raising the shield and preparing for battle, knew that Steve still had to save the world. Howard had to find him. He _had to_.

 

Time.  P a s s e d.

 

He met Maria, Knew that she would be his wife. Knew that he would love her, and she him, and so he set himself to wooing her. She was so beautiful, so generous and kind, brilliant in her own way. How could he not fall in love with her? (He knew what she would look like on their wedding day. Saw it in the sparkle of her eyes, every day.)

 

Maria got pregnant, and it was a genuine surprise, he had Seen nothing of it. Throughout the pregnancy, throughout decorating the new nursery, choosing clothes, choosing furniture, Howard didn’t See anything about their baby, and he feared—he _feared_ —

 

But the baby was born, and the nurses assured him Maria, the baby boy—Anthony, Maria insisted—his baby boy was healthy, both of them were. He had tears in his eyes as he held his son for the first time, looked down into his son’s ugly, wrinkly, red face, and the baby’s eyes opened, looking up at him with somber intelligence, eyes already brown and not baby-blue, and Howard—

 

\--Howard Saw.

 

Stark Heir builds Circuitboard, Age 4 – Stark Heir Improves Father’s Bombs, Age 11 – Stark Heir builds Robot – Stark heir moves weapons building to new heights – Merchant of Death – Anthony, bruises around his eyes, dirt and blood on his face, in a cave, building a bomb for terrorists – Anthony, watching American Soldiers die, die, die – Anthony, killing Obadiah, Howard’s best friend – Anthony, Merchant of Death – Merchant of Death – Guns, Bombs – Merchant of Death – Anthony, arms spread wide while a mountain range is obliterated behind him, proud of his destruction, proud—proud—Merchant of Death—Red ledger, death toll in the thousands—Merchant of Death—

 

Howard gasped and jerked back, shoved the squirming, warm bundle of his son back into the nurse’s arms, suddenly gone pale. “I—that’s, great, Maria, I—need some air—“ And he left. Ignored Maria’s calls, the whimpers of the—the monster that was his son—behind him as he left the room.

 

Merchant of Death.

 

He couldn’t see anything, looking into his son’s dark eyes, other than news article after headline—Stark Heir Caught In Illicit Love Triangle!—Merchant of Death Reveals New Weapon!—so he doesn’t. Has to pour himself a shot of whiskey in the aftermath of the new circuit board, knowing this is the beginning of the end. What has he _done_?

 

The guilt eats at him, the horror. He can’t make himself look at his son, can’t—just can’t. His relationship with Maria decays, slowly, surely, as he spends more time at the office, more and more, until he’s home as rarely as he can. How can he fix this?

 

It hits him one day, the answer. Steve. Maybe if Steve were here, Tony would have a role model, someone to look up to, someone to—to try and emulate other than Howard. Maybe Tony could be…could be better. As he thought it, he got a flash—Steve, smiling at Tony—and he Knew. He knew, it might be the answer. Howard threw himself into the search. Spent years, more than a decade, desperately searching, knowing if he just, if he just found him…

 

And, he made plans, in case finding Steve wasn’t enough. Helped to build SHIELD, and helped to try and recreate the Super Soldier Serum, because if Steve wasn’t there, they—they would need someone who could protect the world from what Howard had created. He watched his son grow sullen and angry, watched him build and build, already making guns, making bombs—Obadiah loved it, but Howard hated it—and knew this was the beginning. Oh god.

 

His hands shook as he poured himself a drink and brought it to his lips. Oh god.

 

December 16, 1991. Howard didn’t know what was going to happen as he and Maria left the house, still fuming from a screaming match with Tony. Why couldn’t Tony listen to him! Howard hated it. Hated himself. Couldn’t hate his son, though, could only fear him, fear for him. As ever, tonight, the future had glimmered The Merchant of Death, had gleamed with explosions and blood and death in Tony’s dark eyes. Howard had to look away, sick to his stomach. He was glad. He’d signed some paperwork today, ensuring funding for the next 30 years to continue the search for Captain America. Good. Good. It was needed, he knew, turning away from the death in his son’s dark eyes.

 

Later, after the crash, he lay in the wreckage hearing footsteps crunching closer, saw the glass shards from the car gleaming in the streetlight on the ground, some clean, some covered in red-red-red liquid. Saw, in the red-and-yellow gleams, flashes of the future. Merchant-of-Death—Kidnapping—Torture—His son, his son, his son being tortured—Being wounded by a bomb with their name on it—ohgodohgodohgod—Open heart surgery awake, without anesthetic, he heard his son’s screams ringing in his ears, and then…

 

He saw gold-and-red armor, a marvel, a miracle. Flight. Rebirth from the ashes. Phoenix. He saw The Merchant of Death become Iron Man, become the people’s hero, become Privatized World Peace, become—become a hero, fighting beside Captain America, closing the hole torn in the sky with sacrifice, with love and sacrifice—

 

Howard was barely aware of Maria’s struggles beside him, her death—the light flashed and he moaned when he watched Iron Man, his son, fighting, changing the world, creating renewable energy, doing—doing everything he could, trying so-so-so hard—

 

Movement shifted in front of him and Howard dragged his eyes up, recognized—“Bu-Bucky…”

 

The metal arm came up, hand in a fist, gleaming silver, and as it came down, Howard could only see that he’d misjudged his own son, so very deeply, and in the last moment felt a flash of—pride.


End file.
